


I Feel It Again

by jedihbic



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, Childhood, First Meetings, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Visions, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 13:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedihbic/pseuds/jedihbic
Summary: Ten-year-old Ben Solo wanders into a holo-bar on Cloud City, determined to entertain himself despite his mother and father being too busy to spend time with him. While messing with a deck of sabacc cards, he feels a ripple in the force which demands his immediate attention. Lightyears away, a baby is born.





	I Feel It Again

Traditionally, when one witnesses a ten-year-old boy crawling up onto a barstool in Cloud City’s most restricted holo-bar, one informs the bouncer; after all, no child should be subject to the lewd, life-sized holograms of half-naked Twi’leks which are projected onto the bartop. It’s considered bad form to stand by and do nothing in such a situation…

Unless that ten-year-old just happens to be Ben Solo, son of Leia Organa and Han Solo, nephew of Lando Calrissian himself.

No one wanted to upset the child, so the bargoers let him be, trading dubious glances between each other and mouthing the words “Not _my_ problem” before downing their tangy hooch and carrying on. Besides the fact that Lando was fiercely protective of his nephew, rumors of the boy’s… unnatural abilities had surfaced, and it seemed as though every living creature on Bespin was determined to keep their distance from the kid.

Ben sat atop the cushioned barstool, tooling with the sabacc deck that his uncle had lent him, pretending to be oblivious to the way adults tiptoed around him like he was some sort of ticking time bomb. He didn’t know how to play sabacc, of course, and, even if he did, he was entirely sure that no one within a hundred-mile radius wanted to play against him anyhow. Still, he familiarized himself with the cards, averting his eyes from the holographic dancers swaying atop the bar, his ears burning pink.

It wasn’t unusual for Ben to wander the streets of Cloud City after dark when visiting Bespin. Leia was often busy, and Han was often _absent,_ so Ben took to clandestinely exploring the city’s nightlife after his bedtime.

The bartender placed a juicebox on the counter directly in front of Ben—“On the house,” he joked—and the boy huffed, pushing the beverage across the countertop before returning to his cards. Several barstools away, a man sat, sipping jet juice from a highball glass, and Ben momentarily considered willing the force to drag the man’s glass toward him so that he could brag about tasting alcohol to his peers. His stomach began to hurt, though, at the thought of Leia finding out and expressing disappointment in him, so he decided against it.

He shuffled the cards poorly, sighing dramatically after accidentally dropping a few on the floor. Squirming off the barstool, he bent down to retrieve the fallen cards, scooping them up and rising to his full height again, accidentally bumping into a passing Balosar in the process.

“Sorry,” Ben mumbled under his breath, reorganizing the cards in his hands.

“My bad,” the Balosar—a male—apologized with a wavering voice, his antennas twitching anxiously as he looked _up_ at the ten-year-old boy before scampering away.

Everyone was always looking _up_ at him.

 

He’d been told by many, many people that he was rather tall for a ten-year-old. At five-foot-six, he was far too large and gangly to meld correctly with the rest of the children on Chandrila, on Bespin, on _any_ godforsaken planet. He towered above the rest of them, looking very much like a sixteen-year-old rather than a ten-year-old, and, no matter how much he slouched, he was a visual pariah when compared to his peers. Leia—standing at a whopping four feet and eleven inches—was forced to look _up_ at her ten-year-old son, which was all sorts of embarrassing. Han suspected he must’ve had some superhuman growth spurt in the womb because he can’t remember a time when Ben wasn’t too tall, too lanky for his age.

It wasn’t just his height that set him apart from others, nor was it just his force abilities; what set him apart from others was this big, ugly amalgamation of flaws that he couldn’t quite get rid of. On Chandrila, one particularly rude boy around his age liked to mention that Ben had “ears bigger than the death star and a nose to match,” so, of course, when Leia proposed a haircut, Ben resisted. Since then, his hair was always shaggy, always in his face, attempting to conceal his abnormally large features. Then, there was the matter of his moles; he had an overabundance of dark beauty marks dappling that long, sad face of his. So, one morning, he dipped the pads of his fingers into this round basin that Leia had placed neatly amongst her other toiletries, and he discovered a thick, cosmetic cream that rivaled his own skin tone in terms of paleness. It was a bit too orange for his pasty complexion, but he smeared a generous amount on his face, burying his moles under layers and layers of product.

 

Ben forced the thought from his mind, instinctively reaching upward to flatten his hair, making sure his ears weren’t poking out. He reached toward the newly-shuffled deck and pulled a card at random, hoping it was a special one rather than just a silly set of numbers. The deck didn’t disappoint.

 _Endurance,_ the card read.

Ben examined the card and its symbol for a moment before setting it off to the side. He was prepared to pull another, but, in that very instant, he felt a cool breeze fan over the tips of his ears, and he reached to conceal them at a breakneck speed.

 

Sometimes, despite his efforts, the tips of his saucer-like ears would peek out from underneath his mop of hair, and the cosmetic cream would smudge, and he’d get real frustrated with himself. Tears would well up in his eyes, and his chin would wobble, and his bottom lip would quiver, and he’d feel absolutely pathetic. He couldn’t help but want to dismantle everything in his path, emitting these awful, miserable-sounding cries that left Leia trembling in his doorway, asking the same question— _“What’s wrong, Benny? What’s wrong?”_ —over, and over, and over again. Those were, as Han referred to them, his “tantrums.”

Han thought he was overreacting, and Leia assured him that insecurity was just a part of growing up, of becoming a pre-teen… but, if he was being completely honest with himself, his desire to fit in with kids his age had deeper roots than just his unprepossessing features. He had an overwhelming desire to fit into his own _family_ , but that wasn’t working out too well either.

His mother, Leia Organa, the princess… his father, Han Solo, the smuggler… his uncle, Luke Skywalker, the Jedi legend… his grandmother, Padme Amidala, the senator… his grandfather, Anakin Skywalker, who, Ben had been told, was a Jedi as well…

He was part of some legendary bloodline, and, at ten years old, he already felt as though he didn’t belong. Ben was one big ball of reckless emotion, and he always had been, but anger, and impulse, and the sadistic satisfaction he felt when he managed to destroy something of his father’s during a _tantrum_ … those weren’t the traits of an Organa, of a Skywalker. In a family chock full of politicians, and Jedis, and these God-like figures of righteousness, Ben Solo felt like nothing more than a speck of evil on the squeaky-clean Organa-Solo family tree.

 

Ben glanced down at another sabacc card peeking out from in between his fingers. It looked like he was reading the card underwater, and he soon realized that he was crying rather hard. He wiped big, wet tears from his eyes in order to properly identify the card, and then he focused on the red symbol with devil horns poking out on either side.

 _The Evil One,_ it read.

Ben clenched his teeth. He wanted to shred the card with his bare hands, wanted to call upon the force and bust every fragile tumbler glass stacked neatly behind the bar, wanted to burn the lounge to the ground and watch it boil and pop like the rage bubbling up inside his tummy; instead, he set the card down calmly and begged himself not to start bawling in front of all these drunks.

 

Of course, anger, and impulse, and self-satisfaction could be considered Solo traits, but Ben and his father couldn’t be more polar opposite. When Han got frustrated, he didn’t scream, or sob, or will the force to tear apart his bedroom brick-by-brick; he just left, jumping ship when things got complicated, flying off to who-knows-where in the Falcon for days—sometimes weeks—at a time. When Han felt miserable, he didn’t rush into his Leia’s arms, bawl into the crook of her neck, and wipe snot on his sleeves; he left.

He _always_ left.

His father loved him, and Ben knew that. The way Han looked at him sometimes—like the smuggler was prepared to raze planets to ensure his son’s happiness—was proof that, like Leia, he loved Ben unconditionally. Unconditional love, though, wasn’t enough to stop the emotional rift forming between them. Han would pull a blaster on anyone who dared to lay a finger on his son, that much was true. Yet, when Ben woke up at two in the morning with tears streaming down his cheeks, blubbering, “ _There’s someone in my head… there’s someone in my head telling me to do bad thing_ s,” Han would stand still as death in the doorway, looking like a complete _idiot_ as Leia scooped the boy into her arms and cooed softly. When Ben felt like a useless, beastly piece in the grand puzzle that was his lineage, Han would watch from afar as the ten-year-old shattered vases and deconstructed furniture without so much as lifting a finger, and then he’d flee in the Falcon without a word.

 

“Kid, you need somethin’? A tissue?” the bartender asked warily, keeping his distance behind the counter.

Ben hid his face in his hands and sniffled, shaking his head frantically, dismissing the bartender with a miserable “No thank you.” He puffed out a few unsteady breaths, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve before hesitantly reaching across the bar to collect that juice box that he refused earlier. Looking like an absolute mess, the ten-year-old sipped his blumfruit juice, sniffled once more, and plucked another card from the deck, determined to distract himself.

 _The Idiot,_ it read.

Ben wiped his eyes, and a toothy smile split his tear-streaked face— _at least the cards are on my side,_ he thought to himself.

He knew, of course, that the deck had no tarot-like qualities, that a game of sabacc could no more tell his fortune than one of those kismet biscuits that come with Mon Cal takeout. Still, it was comforting to imagine that the cards understood his situation, his pain. Tossing the face card into the throwaway pile, he reached for another, but, at that moment, something very strange happened.

Uncle Luke had told him once, “When something drastic happens, whether good or bad, the Jedi can sometimes _feel_ it. It’s sort of like every nerve in your body is trying its hardest to catch your attention… a tingling sensation, I’d say.”

Ben shuddered, and the tiny wisps of hair coating his arms and legs stood proud. It felt as though every nerve ending within him had been pricked and prodded. His head lifted at breakneck speed, his pupils dilated considerably, and he found himself gazing behind the counter with an intensity no other ten-year-old could possibly muster. To the other bargoers, it must’ve looked like the boy was focusing very keenly on a carefully assembled pyramid of shot glasses behind the bar. To Ben, though, it was much more than that.

Unfamiliar images sparked and sputtered in his mind like a malfunctioning podracer, flashing so quickly he could hardly make any sense of them. The individual images eventually melted into one clear, concise scene.

He saw, felt, and heard several things at once.

 

_There was a blinding, yellow light—the sun, he figured—and it was beating down on him so aggressively, he could hardly breathe. A desolate stretch of sand dunes was sprawled before him, and, at that moment, he was grateful that he’d never been forced to visit wastelands such as Tatooine, Pasaana, and whatever this place was. There was a big, metal luggabeast stomping around in the sand, and, atop its saddle, a brown-haired man rubbed the shoulders of a heavily pregnant woman. He kept repeating things like “Hold on, baby” and “Almost there,” but the woman wasn’t hearing it; she cried out, thrashing in the saddle before whipping the luggabeast twice, ordering it to stop. The woman slipped off the saddle and landed clumsily in the sand, her knees buckling._

_“It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming,” she chanted over and over again. “I can’t make it to the outpost.”_

_The man—Ben assumed he was the woman’s partner—swung his leg over the saddle and climbed carefully off the luggabeast, staggering on his feet before dropping to his knees next to the writhing woman. He shucked off the scrap of fabric covering his chest and balled it up, placing it under the woman’s head like a sort of makeshift pillow._

_“I’ve got you,” he murmured, panicked._

_The woman screeched and sobbed, and Ben was overwhelmed with concern for her. He gripped the edge of the bartop, hyperventilating as he watched the scene play out, scared out of his mind. For fifteen minutes, the woman panted, clutching her partner’s wrist and huffing out shallow breaths as the man positioned himself between her legs and encouraged her to keep pushing. When the baby’s head poked out between her legs, Ben nearly fainted. He couldn’t possibly imagine the sort of pain she was in. The worst pain he had ever felt was falling off his kiddie speeder at the age of six; he figured giving birth was like that, only a billion times worse._

_The man kept motivating her, and the woman kept shrieking, and Ben kept gripping the bartop… ‘til, eventually, all that could be heard was heavy breathing and the rattling cry of a newborn._

_“It’s a girl,” the man declared breathlessly. “Look at her; she’s a little ray of sunshine.”_

_Though the umbilical cord was still very much attached, he held the red-faced infant—“Little Rey,” he insisted—to his chest and cooed at her. Meanwhile, both Ben and the woman were still attempting to collect themselves._

_“Can I…” the woman trailed off, utterly exhausted. “Can I have that drink you promised?”_

_The man chuckled, supporting the baby in his arms as he reached into his back pocket and procured a flask. He tossed it in the woman’s general direction, and she immediately brought the stopper to her lips, letting alcohol drip down her chin as she swallowed mouthfuls greedily. The baby gurgled and squealed as everyone took a moment to catch their breath._

_Then…_

 

Then, the images were washed cleanly from Ben’s mind, and he blinked, disoriented and white-knuckled.

It felt as though he had been frozen in carbonite and suddenly thawed. His pupils shrank, the hair on his arms flattened, and he began to feel exceedingly nauseous. Dazed and confused, he glanced down at the bartop slowly, and, though he couldn’t remember drawing another card, one was flipped on the counter, demanding his attention.

 _Balance,_ it read.

Ben peered at the card incredulously, brushing the pads of his fingers over the triangular symbol decorating its face.

The bartender, seeming to have noticed Ben’s lack of color and bewildered expression, scrubbed the inside of a shot glass with a tattered rag and asked warily, “You alright, kid? Need me to fetch your uncle?”

“Nuh uh,” Ben responded.

The ten-year-old was all out of sorts, and, for a moment, he assumed the tapster was referring to Uncle Luke rather than Lando. Then, as if by word association, he remembered Uncle Luke’s statement: _When something drastic happens, whether good or bad, the Jedi can sometimes feel it._

He was positively sure that’s what he had experienced moments beforehand— _but… what’s so drastic about the birth of a single child?_ Ben wondered.

Scooping up the throwaway pile, he reshuffled the deck of cards and stuffed them back into the flimsy pack from which they came; his fingertips hovered over the _Balance_ card for a moment too long. Thinking only of _Little Rey,_ the screaming infant from his vision, he slumped off the barstool, prepared to return home and tuck himself in bed without alerting his mother, determined to bombard Uncle Luke with a slew of questions the next time he saw the man.


End file.
